**The Storm of Puberty**
Teenage years are notoriously complicated, and they were no different for me. Before adolescence hit, life felt more straightforward. Sure, there were problems, but they were simple, and the solutions seemed obvious. If I practiced hard, I’d become a better second baseman. If I was kind to people, they were usually kind in return. It was a world where cause and effect made sense. There was order, and I could navigate it. But then, puberty arrived, and everything changed.
Puberty was like a fog rolling in—sudden and disorienting. Suddenly, the things I’d once known so clearly became blurred by insecurities. I’d spend countless minutes in front of the mirror, combing my hair in five different ways, hoping one of them would make me look more confident, more chiseled—more like the person I wanted to be. In those years, the comments and opinions of others became my measure of self-worth. I became hyper-aware of my appearance, my stature, and my shyness. It’s not that I was a particularly unattractive or awkward kid, but every flaw, real or imagined, felt magnified.
If puberty came with a warning label, it might say, “You will never feel normal, you will never feel good enough, mirrors will be your enemy, and what other people think of you will define your self-worth.” That kind of heads-up might have helped. But it doesn’t work like that. Puberty sneaks up on you, like a rip tide. One moment you’re floating along, carefree, and the next, you’re being pulled in every direction by forces you can’t control or even see. It takes you somewhere you never wanted to go, and by the time you realize it, you’re in deep.
I was a healthy kid, at least physically. My allergies were a nuisance, but otherwise, I didn’t have much to complain about—before adolescence. My mind, however, was a different story. I’ve always been a daydreamer, someone who spent a lot of time inside my own thoughts. I loved sports, often making up imaginary baseball games that I could play by myself when no one else was around. I had a passion for math because it was one of the few things that felt certain, something that made sense. For a long time, I found comfort in religion. Faith gave me a structure, a way to explain the world and my place in it. It felt good to believe that everything was part of a grand plan—a plan in which my thoughts and decisions were guided by a higher power.
But puberty complicated that, too. Suddenly, the big questions didn’t have easy answers. My doubts and insecurities were louder than the reassurances of faith. I wasn’t just wrestling with physical changes; my mind was at war with itself. I worried constantly about my looks, my height, my hair, and even my legs after someone called me bowlegged. I questioned every aspect of my appearance and behavior, scrutinizing myself more than anyone else ever could. It was exhausting.
Some might say I was simply going through normal teenage anxieties, but I don’t think it was that simple. It felt like my self-worth had been hijacked. Before puberty, I could define who I was. After, it was as if that power belonged to everyone else. My confidence was fragile, constantly at the mercy of others’ opinions. I didn’t like standing out for the wrong reasons. I didn’t like having acne, allergies, or anything that made me different from everyone else. I was short, shy, and average looking, and none of those things made me feel particularly special.
Relationships with girls changed, too. Before puberty, girls were friends, equals. Afterward, they became part of a different kind of competition. It wasn’t just about liking someone; it was about who could win the attention of the prettiest girl, who could be the coolest guy in the room. The pressure was suffocating. And then, when I was fourteen, my brother was murdered. People around me assumed I was depressed because of that tragedy. Maybe I was, but in hindsight, I think the deeper issue was that I had lost the ability to value myself. My self-worth had become tied to external validation, and I was constantly coming up short.
In my neighborhood, things were even more competitive. There was a strange kind of contest to see who could make others feel worse, as if tearing someone down was the best way to build yourself up. Puberty was the starting line of a race, and we were all running—whether we wanted to or not. First, it was about grades. Then it shifted to how cool you could be. Who could drink the most? Who could smoke the most weed? Family gatherings turned into uncomfortable performances, where your parents would either brag about something you didn’t care about or stay silent while others did the boasting.
That’s when the “rat race” begins. The rest of your life, you’re answering that unspoken question: “What have you been up to?” It’s code for, “What have you accomplished? How do you justify yourself?” It’s as if life becomes a series of rehearsed answers, meant to keep others from being disappointed in you. And it starts right there, in the confusion of adolescence.
But now, as I sit here reflecting, I realize how much time I wasted living for someone else’s expectations. Puberty was supposed to be a phase, but in many ways, I let it define me for far too long. Today, I’m done with that. For me, puberty stops now. No more living for the approval of others. No more rehearsed answers. I’m going to find my own peace, even if it means being alone. I’ll watch the birds in the estuary. I’ll go kayak fishing before dawn, while the world is still asleep. And I’ll take back the sense of calm and clarity that puberty stole from me.